


These Few Years

by necronism



Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4 - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 20:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12490132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necronism/pseuds/necronism
Summary: Rafe Adler saved Sam Drake's life. There's no disputing this fact. He got the man out of jail and back into the world of the living... but the last two or three years are left unsaid, unspoken of. What happened before Sam Drake was thrown back into the arms of his brother?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All "facts" represented about Rafe Adler are purely head-canon fodder I developed over the few months I wanted to study him. Nothing here is canon or can be proven as such, honestly just me doing a little world/character building around his family, their estate, and business.

The years spent abroad with Rafe Adler were to be regarded as such: passionate, confusing, and dangerous (which only made it all the more thrilling to Sam, who took notes on his parent now and then). The moment he saw Rafe on the other side of the gates of the prison, creaking as they were dragged open wide enough him to slide through, he knew that this was going to be the rest of his time spent on earth; groomed to be a caddy, everything picked out for him, right down to the designer jeans with a rip near the pockets.

"Why do these cost more?" Sam once asked as Rafe thumbed through pairs of folded denim, checking tags. "I could do it myself, save you some money."

Rafe had given him an exhausted glance, heavy-lidded eyes so promised to close by the previous flight that he didn't have the energy to even roll them. Money had never been an issue for the Adler family since Rafe's grandfather, Johaness, came to New York on a freighter ship and settled himself into New York as a self-proclaimed expert of antiquities. It began from there, a nest egg rolled down from Johannes to Rafe's father, Raphael, who was then groomed to cater to the luxuries and mysteries of the museums and fresh archaeological digs. They became a family called upon to investigate the authenticity of a painting flown in from France or Italy or discovered in an abandoned castle on the Moors.

Rafe Adler wasn't the first choice to be the next in line for this family business of fine arts and brokerage. No, he was a rather lonely child, preceded by his parents' love for the arts and traveling and having the boy focus on his studies in the sanctum of the Adler mansion, our of their sight. He was a child groomed to luxury and manners, forced to sit straight and learn a second, even third, language (German came naturally to the family, and French from Rafe's mother).

The only way Sam found out any of this was during their first week away from Panama, just a short trip down to a cape town to get ripped shit on cheap alcohol and celebrate Sam's "escape". The whole while he had been cooped in a small cell, not knowing who knew if he was alive or dead, he didn't figure how much he would on for company he had gone without appreciating for so long. Rafe so much as touched his arm and gave a grin as their tequila shots were lined up and Sam felt his heart start up again. And there had been moments like this in the beginning, upon first meeting the esteemed Rafe Adler who - not only didn't dress like the Drake brothers, didn't even talk like them. There was an air about the new guy and Nathan obviously felt pretty challenged. Why shouldn't they question some trust fun rich kid funding their expeditions to Central and South America? But he so much as touched Sam's arm or shoulder to make a point, or but in on some conversation between the two brothers, and Sam found himself shutting up. He was a stray dog learning discipline for the first time.

After Mexico came Manhattan, a daunting one-stop flight they left Sam weak in the knees and nearly kissing the earth. It had been over a decade since he had seen a city, let alone cars that weren't accompanied by armed guards, and planes that didn't shudder when they flew low overhead against the setting sun. Sam could recall those days easily, but had no idea how to relay his hesitancy to Rafe Adler, sitting across from him on a private jet and sipping from a water bottle that no doubt cost more than the clothes Sam had left the prison with. Something he absently commented on after being coaxed through a few glasses of scotch. It got a look from Rafe who, upon setting his own drink down, discussed that Sam will have to change his entire wardrobe if they were going to work together.

This led to grief wherever Rafe Adler dared to take Sam in New York, yanking him around like a puppy on a leash from one tailor to the next. Sam was supplied with a cell phone (after a much needed discussion that yes, this was indeed a phone, they were completely flat now and had cameras installed into them), an array of jeans, and loose-fitting shirts that seemed to drop off one shoulder. He couldn't figure out why he needed a haircut, but after an insisted "trim", Sam felt the weight of Panama beginning to ease from his shoulders.

Around every corner, however, Sam expected to run into his brother. Several times, he tried to bring Nathan up, but was only met with Rafe's frosty glare. They had spend the entire day trying to pick up where Sam had been left off with society, being run down with shorthand of politics, celebrities, movies, and natural disasters over the past decade and a half. None of it mattered, Sam hearing a high-pitched whine in the back of his head ever since the plane landed, followed by "Sorry, I wasn't listening".

Now laden with shopping bags of all sorts, they would take a half-hour drive from Manhattan to the Bronx and off into the residential neighborhood of Carnegie Hill, where one of the few Adler estates resided. Sam had expected Rafe to become like so many artsy others he had been gold about, secluding himself in a loft apartment, smoking all day and listening to the cars passing under. This was nothing like that.

The first thing Sam noticed was the silence. From the moment the front door was shut and locked, Rafe's heeled shoes tapping out of the foyer, he found himself in silence. There were no trains, engines, the cacophony of exotic wildlife in the trees, no fighting, screaming, or crumbling walls. Rafe's voice cut across the entrance hall but he already sounded so far away.

"Are you coming?"

He had no idea where he would be headed, but he rolled his shoulders back and picked the shopping bags back up. What he expected of mansions was a slim frame of references, having jumped through a few hoops as a teenager and sneaking through in the dark... and whatever he had seen of "Annie", Sam was pleasantly surprised by the sheer closeness of the walls and furniture in here. Following Rafe down the hall, up a small staircase to the second floor (again, there was no vastness), he may have spotted one other person and when he looked again, they were gone.

"You can sleep in here." Rafe had stopped at an oak-wood door and tried the handle. Cursing, he fumbled with a key and wrestled with the handle for a moment longer as Sam set down his bags and rubbed at an arm. The room itself was rather simple but obviously larger than the cell he had been confined to those lonely thirteen years; it had a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet. Whatever paintings or pictures that had been on the wall were removed, and recently at that, as hollow squares of untouched, clean wallpaper divided the walls into neat sections of beige and off-white. From the light seeping through the dusty blinds of the one window in here, Sam could see it could have purposed as a guest bedroom long ago, only to be locked away by even the staff.

"I haven't gone in here since..." Rafe leaned across Sam and tried the light switch. There was a sharp pop from a bulb, but nothing else happened. He swore under his breath, handing Sam the key to this room. It was an old key, heavy, with few teeth and less design to the actual lock. "Shit, whatever. Stay the night in here, we'll find something else another time."

From the light seeping through the blinds, he could not properly see Rafe's face. Sober, back in the States, he could male clear just exactly how much time had passed sing looking at Rafe's outlined profile in the moonlight. How tired his eyes had become, how uneven the coloring in his irises were since the first time he had stared into them. There was an unsteady beating in his chest as his fingers curled around the key and Rafe took a few steps back into the hallway.

"My room is down this way, but don't think about bothering me tonight. Toilets and showers still work the same as they did over ten years ago." This, in regards to the constant badgering on changes through households and every day chores from Sam, but it was to be expected. As expected as Sam's weary, wary gaze on the other man. Rafe, not expecting confrontation about the poor condition of the room, simply turned on his heel and walked away. Sam, of course making sure to see which room he went into, slowly nudged the bags into the room and shut the door behind him. It shut with a heavy "clack" and was the last abrupt sound to come out of the house.

He stood, silent, feeling his palm burn around the key where he had carried the bags up the stairs. Recalling on the overwhelming silence again, Sam moved to the bed and sank into the mattress, half expecting to be met with rocks anchoring the fabric from the other side. Nothing sharp met his weight, nothing struck him as familiar, simply as gentle as Rafe's hand on his arm the day before. Everything had moved forward in a blur. With the conditions he had lived in for about thirteen years, he had no lingering comments about the smell of dust, moth balls, or old linens.

Thankful to have a blanket short of blood stains (among other bodily fluids), Sam discarded his boots and jeans to the floor and slipped under the covers. What dust he wiped from the pillow simply provided a cloudy atmosphere against the slotted moonlight, and he watched the specks dance and glint until his eyes, finally heavy, closed. The silence, while overwhelming, enveloped him as any welcoming old friend might, and Sam found himself dreamless, without fear of a raid, an ambush, or alarm slicing through the night.

Sam Drake found himself home, after thirteen long years.


	2. Chapter 2

Whatever he had been expecting of the next morning never came. His body awoke with a start, hands jerking under his pillow to reach for a shiv... only to find nothing. For a moment, he panicked, sure that this was how he would be finding himself in the courtyard later, spitting Spanish and empty threats with no weapon to back him up. As the lights behind his eyes began to fade, Sam found himself sitting up at the elbow in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room dimly lit by the sun peeling through the blinds.

He turned to stare into the sunlight, feeling the warmth on his cheek and palm as he drifted his fingers through the rays. There was something different about how the sun touched him in this world, different from the life left behind with all its danger. Now turning his hand to his face, Sam reclined back into the bed and caught his breath. This room, as unfamiliar as it was, was still his own right now. He checked the clock on the nightstand which, upon realizing it wasn't four in the morning, he turned to the new phone Rafe had bought him (and it took him a moment longer to remember how to turn it on).

It was one-twenty in the afternoon and nothing, not even a paranoid nightmare, had been able to shake him from that sleep. His body felt heavier but his heart, somehow, light. Alcohol wasn't grounding him but he itched for a cigarette, fingers twitching idly against the slick screen of the phone. Rafe hadn't come knocking on the door or shown up there, yelling into his face that he needed to move.

Was this... life now?

Sam's heart rolled in his chest as he forced himself to sit up and rub at a knot in one shoulder. Crammed into several plans can do that to a man, and now that he had enough room to breathe, Sam wasn't sure what to do with himself. Was he allowed to wander the estate, so long as he kept his hands to himself? Where would Rafe be in this giant home? How much more did he have to catch up on?

He spent the next ten minutes rifling through bags and finding something to wear. None of these purchases could be rightfully recalled, as Rafe had simply snapped his fingers and pointed to what was to be thrown into the card or over Sam's arm. Again, it had been a hasty blur that began in Panama and ended in an unfamiliar bedroom in the Upper East Side of New York. There was a sudden putter of an engine and Sam froze, mind reeling back to the old humvees that circled around the prison from dawn until dusk.

However long he was stuck in this reverie was enough time for Rafe to knock on the door, bringing Sam back to the present. He sucked in a breath a muttered a weak reply, which Rafe took as an invitation to open the door and stare at the man crouched behind several stacks of designer clothes. For a moment, Rafe let his mouth hang open.

"Okay... I thought you might want something to eat, so lunch..."

"I'm fine," Sam croaked, finding the strength to sit himself up on the bed. Bedraggled as he was, with uneven stubble and messy hair and a gaunt expression, anyone that knew what he had been through could consider this "fine" enough. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Thanks, but I don't think I can... eat."

Rafe drew in a slow breath, rolling his eyes. There was a crease of worry in his brow, but it didn't reflect into the rest of his posture, simply leaning back out the door and pulling the door closed with him. At first glance, this was a host already fed up with their guest. To Sam, he knew he had plenty of time to figure out their conflicting schedules before Rafe snapped and demanded more than his company.

He hadn't heard his approaching footfalls up the stairs, but he heard Rafe descend now. There was no clack against tile, but Rafe didn't seem the type to wander around his own estate in socks. The man had been nearly dressed for even a simple afternoon at home. Sam looked down at himself in comparison, figuring a slight change would be alright.

*

As he took the stairs back down to the hallway that would take him around a sharp turn and back into the open entrance of the manor, Sam immediately found himself lost. Something seemed do be missing from the building when he had first entered it, but now looking out Sam could see that more rooms had existed here. An open kitchen with several Island counters (where staff worked silently over food), an arch way leading out to a dining room beyond that. To the left of all this, an large and very open living area, complete with the cliché fireplace and several leather chairs facing inward to a giant fur rug. Above the mantle were several paintings and plaques, no doubt familial achievements through the decades. Among all this wonder was a simple long table beneath a chandelier.

At one chair sat Rafe, chin in one hand as he idly drifted a finger up and down a large screen. It's a tablet, he told Sam on the plane, recounting news and more politics to introduce through the Internet. Probably sensing Sam's lingering presence, he looked up and regarded the man with a heavy blink.

This was no evening in Panama with heavy drinking and playful shoving from their bar stools. This wasn't an afternoon on a jet with more drinking and trying to pry answers from one another about what had happened over the last decade. This was a solemn, almost confusing morning for Sam as he crossed the floor and pulled out a chair to sit across from Rafe. He stared, puzzled at the tablet, before trying to appear defiant in his further questioning.

"My brother," he began, and Rafe visibly tensed. Sam thought to stop, after having let Rafe drunkenly berate him about Nathan Drake and all that he had accomplished (there was very little that Sam actually remembered being told). "He has to know about me, right? He's gonna find out."

The look Rafe gave him in return was sympathetic, but quickly twisted into a quiet rage as he turned the tablet facedown. Sam knew the short temper behind the man and slowly sat back. There was a storm brewing behind Rafe's features but he didn't lash out just yet. Silence passed over the table.

"It's better if you let this go. He didn't bother to find out if you were alive, if there was even a sliver of a chance that it could have all been a mistake."

Sam opened his mouth to reply but was effectively silenced by a raised hand. He flinched, turning his eyes down. The demand of their relationship had to begin, and yet he still felt himself easy into a state where a lapdog was better off at the feet of their owner.

"Yes, I believed you were dead too. I was convinced and had my time to mourn the loss of a useful Drake. Your brother was hardly affected by his loss, going on ahead to other expeditions, other dig sites, paying no mind that his older brother was being patched up by some chop-shop doctor in Panama and thrown back into a cell."

Sam wanted to ask how Rafe had known, how he had found out after all that time that he was still alive. Stretching back in the chair, let alone pulling any muscles in his abdomen at all caused an ache to flare up, and his right leg to go numb. It stretched out, limp, but Sam had some shred of pride as he raised his eyes to Rafe.

"The damage was done," he admitted, placing a hand over the scattered blemishes that were pleasantly aching now. Sam's voice felt lost in his own head, and he wondered if he was even speaking aloud. The look on Rafe's face was the only indication of, yes, he was talking at all. "I waited for weeks, months even, for one of you to come back... even out of revenge. Start another riot or something and find me, waiting, then get me out of that Hell."

"I had sources. After a while, I admit, I forgot about you. Your brother was always some sliver under my nail, always one step ahead no matter how hard I tried." Rafe adjusted in his seat, turning the tablet back over and his attention toward it. Pressing a button, the screen flicked on, casting a faint glow across his cheek. "He's still after it. After all these years. I know he is."

Sam's lips parted in anticipation to speak. He knew what that meant. That Nathan, despite any other adventure, had the heart to his namesake still hanging from around his neck. He dreamed that if one day, he escaped from that prison, he would return to the United States and hear the stories of how fortunate his brother had become; rich beyond their wildest dreams and now retired to a private villa somewhere to document his adventures. It was still a dream of his. A fleeting one, it seemed, as he remained seated across from Rafe Adler and watched the younger man grit his teeth over something he was reading.

"His name is all over the destruction of these sites, once left unexplored, in one goddamn piece. Now these ruins are scattered. There's nothing for even my own people to pick up and call a treasure. I'm sure Nathan Drake has something to say about that, as if it's for the better and we should leave the history behind us."

Rafe's eyes flicked back and forth across the screen, an unsettling, manic calm passing over his features.

"He saw something. He saw something worthy of human possession and hid it away from the world. But will he talk? Will he provide justification for this destruction?" He looked to Sam now, who was fully enthralled by this attitude toward his younger brother having accomplished so much, and Rafe Adler so little in his wake. "No, Samuel. He runs away, like all those other times. Money won't bring back what he took from me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have no idea if/when I'll finish this so I apologize for such a shakey/abrupt ending to the chapter itself.)


End file.
